


The Christmas Punch

by IRisEaGLeS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Strictly Dramione's Yuletide Magic 2018, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IRisEaGLeS/pseuds/IRisEaGLeS
Summary: A new holiday tradition began 15 years ago, and an affair bloomed. 15 years ago the first ever Christmas Punch that Wizarding Britain saw was created by two affluent wizards - Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. What has developed 15 years later is a one day per year affair that keeps them surviving another loveless year.





	The Christmas Punch

It was early still, the sun just showing between the parted clouds. There was a light dusting of new snow that befell the little cottage. It was in the middle of nowhere, unplottable, hidden. Only used one day a year regularly, though it was a sanctuary in those times of dire crisis for those who knew of its existence.

It was nothing special, a small kitchen lay to the right of the entrance door, a living area to the left, a small bedroom and bath lay beyond. The gardens were unkempt, and the snow showed nothing of them. The fireplace resided in the living room, along with it a number of books and lounge, a couple of chairs, and a small coffee table.

The kitchen was already warm, charmed that on this one day every year to awaken with the sun. A kettle began to heat on its own accord, warming the water within. At the rear of the kitchen lay what seemed to be a wine collection, but it held something more intricate than a particular vintage or vintages or even memories; it held something of all of them.

He arrived first via the fireplace, checking to see if all was in order. He brought with him the supplies for this year’s brew: wine, raspberries, figs, plums, and a variety of spices and flavorings. It is the celebration of the season that he looks forward to the most, a humble quiet time of creating something special with someone that has become more than the acquaintance that she was when he first began this annual concoction.

He turned to the small kitchen table that separated the two areas, laying all the ingredients upon the surface. He then went to gather the necessary tools for the day: cauldrons, mortars and pestles, bottles, and corks. He veered off his given path and examined the products of the previous years all labeled similarly - December 26th and the year of its creation. He pulls out the first bottle - 2003 - fifteen years ago. This small corner has become their own world for this one day every year for fifteen years now. Fifteen years where the rest of the calendar shows nothing but challenges and heartbreak, arguments and fighting. Fifteen years of a loveless existence except for this one day. This one day makes everything worthwhile. It makes the other three hundred and sixty something days manageable. It is his day of solace, of peace, of love, and of all things good.

He keeps the one bottle in the shelves, he mentally has reserved it for the day that all this can be behind him and he can fill his every day with the joy he feels today. The punch will only get better, as his life gets worse. One day, though, he will enjoy the punch with the one person he cares for entirely, the last person that cares for him too.

He knows she won’t show until later in the morning by the front door, but that doesn’t mean that he won’t escape his own corner of hell early. He leaves first thing in the day, and stays until an hour he knows no one in his home will still be present or at least awake. She has more responsibilities to her home than he. He has distanced himself from most of the familiar duties, leaving that to his emotionally estranged wife. Usually she, on the other hand, has to return prior to the large family gathering that she is drawn into every year. The pain he sees on her face as she departs every year breaks him a little, yet assures him that she will be back again next year, or before if she needs it.

With everything in its place, all he has to do is wait until she returns to him; so for the time being, he takes residence on an armchair and pulls a book from their ever growing personal private library, enjoying the quiet solace that the day brings.

It is a few chapters into this read before he feels the wards of the cottage give into the only other person allowed into the sanctuary - her - his solace, his angel of mercy, his heart and soul.

She opened the door, covered in the glow from the morning rays beyond and a light halo of snow. Her hair was controlled under a dark grey wool cloche hat atop of her brown curls. She had a matching button down overcoat, over what he could only conceive as one of her annual gifts - a handmade sweater, dark slacks and knee high black leather boots. She looked frazzled and in her own world, needing her own escape. And that is what this place will offer her, if only for one day.

“Here, let me take your coat,” he immediately rises and offers her a hand. “Tea, cocoa, or punch?”

“Punch. After this past week, punch is needed.”

He hangs her coat alongside his in the entry closet, turning around to see the sweater of the year - a gaudy burnt amber color with a golden ‘H’ in the center. “She outdid herself this year. When did she start using metallic yarns?”

Looking down she grimaces at the atrocity that adorns her body, “It was the same for everyone this year. We all had either silver or gold lettering. When we all were together, it looked like a terrible Muggle ugly sweater contest. And we all were winners. Or losers, depending on the way you look at it.” They both smile at the imagery of that. A large family full of redheads, all equally terribly dressed in near look-a-like sweaters.

Hanging her hat and scarf up alongside his own, and removing her gloves, she places a small package on the kitchen table before she makes her way to the chair that was not occupied prior - a pale red floral patterned wingback chair that sits ever so closer to the fire than his.

He returns with her large glass of 8 year old punch.

“I brought some new items for this year’s batch,” she begins. “I found a lovely outcropping of wild anise and one of my personal friends recommended a strain of Madagascar vanilla that isn’t commonplace.”

“That sounds lovely,” he sits across from her, his tea in hand. “Longbottom I presume?” She blushes a pale hue of pink in response. “I brought raspberries this year for the reds and most of the regular ingredients.”

She hums her approval, taking a sip from her glass. “This was a good year for the punch. Bad year for both of us but that seems to make the punch that much better.” Her taste buds explode with a butterscotch flavor with an effervescent hint of oak and apples. Her eyes close as she appreciates the vintage and how it has matured over the years, like their relationship. It is a wine to be savored, to be appreciated, cherished, and enjoyed. It is something that winds down from the hardest of weeks, or heightens the most intimate of nights. It is something only the two share, together, in this little cottage.

He nods, noticing the comfort level between the two of them and inwardly smiles. “Agreed. So tell me, what was the worst gift you received this year?”

She looks down at what she is wearing, pulling a face. “You mean beyond this hideous thing? I love my mother-in-law to pieces, since mum died she has been my second mum, but Merlin me this is horrid.”

“Well I got the standards: cuff links, a few new books for my collection at home. Everything seemed so impersonal this year. Probably the worst thing I received was a mustardy-golden set of dress robes for this years New Year’s celebration. They are nearly as bad as that set your husband wore for the Yule Ball back at school.”

“You in gold? Bestill my heart. I must see that!” She laughed, sounding of a church bell choir.

“I must include you on the guest list then. Will your husband be accompanying you?” He asks with the hint of painful snark in his voice. One day she will be his, his to take to the society events, his to curl up with after a long day - not just a long year. His in his bed, in his arms. His entirely for the year, not just a day.

“No he has duty and then is going to the Potters’ for their celebration with the rest of their department. I am supposed to stop by there also at some point of the night,” she says resigned.

“Make an appearance then make a disappearance, I always say,” he chuckles to himself. “So what was the best gift you got?”

“I don’t know. Like you everything seemed impersonal. Like they didn’t know me at all. I got three books I already have, and they were given to me by the people that gave them to me originally. The lack of thought given…” her voice trails off. “Probably the most embarrassing was the lingerie that Ginny gave me. At least she did that in private and not in front of the whole family or even Ronald. It’s not like he would even look at me if I wore it…” there is pain in her voice. A pain that only can stem from the isolation she feels in her own home.

“I hope you brought it. I would love to see you in it.”

The deeper blush on her cheeks is all the answer he needs right now. He knows it is somewhere, maybe even on her body right now, and he - not her husband - will be privy to this gift later today.

She sputters in her embarrassment, “So tell me about your holidays. How many were invited over for your annual Yule Celebration? What did Astoria do this year?”

“Let’s just say it would do your house proud. The Manor did not have it’s usual understated dignity. Instead, as most of my friends so eloquently stated, it looked like it would be the example of what Astoria believed the Gryffindor common room. Complete with a lion in a manger scene.”

The two of them enjoy telling each other of the highlights of their year: career changes, goals, family. Mostly the relate to each other in unspoken words that which is missing most in their lives - love.

Her career is on a never ending upward track to Minister of Magic. His is still atop of his family company. They briefly discuss where their lives will potentially crossover in the next calendar year professionally, and how they will act towards each other at those times. Not like they haven’t had fifteen long years of experience dancing around each other in professional aspects, but even this past calendar year their hands brushed once too many times at a meeting or two and their eyes lingered hungrily at each other in front of colleagues that, if continued, will bring questions that don’t need answering at this point.

Before long, she is on her second glass of punch and they both have migrated to the couch. She lays her head on his shoulder as the topic turns to their spouses.

“Ronald just doesn’t want the same things as I anymore. He wants to come home and relax, put his feet up and have dinner. I can’t tell you the last time we had sex…” her voice trails off as her eyes get misty.

His arm wraps around her comfortingly, as he pulls her closer into his chest. He still works out regularly, mostly as a stress reliever and for her. He would never admit it to anyone outside the cabin, but every time he looks to his bed he closes his eyes for a moment picturing her beside him. His own sex life has been lacking, mostly because he can’t picture something so intimate with someone other than her. So he works out, a lot. It is his only release when she is not in his arms.

“How is he doing with your extended responsibilities now that you’re Minister elect?”

“He isn’t. When an emergency comes up and I am called in, he doesn’t wait up nor take care of the kids. If there is anything that does come up, the kids now go to Harry and Ginny’s for dinner while Ronald goes to his mum and complains about it all night. Then he comes home and goes to bed. Many times without the kids at home even. There have been a few times that I just go to the Potters’ and stay there with the kids. Ginny has made rooms for them there. She keeps saying that if I keep things up, she will have one added for me also.” She looks down at her glass, before lifting it to her lips and taking a long draw. “We might as well move in with Harry and have Ronald move in with his mum.”

“You are referring to him as Ronald, not Ron. What did he do to irk you recently?” He knows she needs to vent more than he; he just drowns his anguish in alcohol nightly. She can’t though. She may have the support of her closest friends, but they are also her extended family which would only lead to a rift.

“He hasn’t done anything recently. It is just an accumulation of all his actions over the years. I can’t narrow it down to one thing anymore.” Her head droops, breaking him a little more. She is usually so strong, poised. To see her this emotionally crushed with only him to turn to one day a year will destroy the fire within this woman. “We are two different people, on two different tracts going in two separate directions. Harry is under similar pressures as I, but Gin stays supportive and by his side for better or worse. Ronald seems to be drifting away quickly.”

“How much longer can the two of you work like this, Hermione?  You’re breaking down. You are shouldering the majority of the stress of the relationship. I hate seeing you hurting like this, Hermione love.”

“Draco, you know it isn’t that simple with kids. How much longer are you going to survive with the frigid witch that rules your life?”

“That is the difference, she doesn’t rule my life. We live two separate lives; like you and your husband. We only are together in public twice a month at most. More often than not, she and I are not seen in public at all. The rest of the time I only see her in bed. Scorpius, sadly, feels this is normal.”

“When did you last have sex, Draco? Be honest.”

“Last year. With you. You?” He eyes her back, knowing the answer before the word leaves his lips.

“Last year, with you also,” she says resignedly into his chest.

“You never answered my question - how much longer can you go on like this, love?”

“I can’t. Not much longer. I want out. I need someone there to support me in everything. But I can’t get out. I feel trapped. I feel so alone amongst my own family.”

“You are never alone. I am and always will be here for you. Whenever you need. You can come here if you need an escape and I will know. I will be here as soon as I can to be here with you. You know that. Don’t feel ashamed or despair. You always have me.”

She nods and he feels a wetness on his shirt from tears that he knows are flowing. He knows the pressures she is under all too well; his life was one expectation after another that ultimately led him here. It lead him to her. It lead him to this corner of the world that is solely theirs, if only for one day.

They remain curled up in each other’s embrace for nearly an hour; him stroking her hair, and she purging all the emotional turmoil that has built up over the past three hundred and sixty four days.

As the noon hour approaches, he kisses the top of her head, “Darling, we probably should start working on the punch.”

“I know,” she murmurs, “I just don’t want to leave here.”

He nods, he would never want the woman in his arms to leave, but his rational side knows the inevitability of the situation.

It is another hour and a glass more of the punch before the two raise from their position to move into the kitchen area.

Their actions are precise. They were the two best in their year in potions, and it shows in each of their minute movements. They are focused. There is not a movement that isn’t coordinated with the other in a silent understanding.

It is this what brought them together those fifteen years ago. They both had a need to swell their hunger to expand their current knowledge into new arenas. One area that each enjoyed was potion making. Hermione developed her knowledge of potions to the epicurean arena in her early marriage. At a dinner party hosted by mutual friends, she lazily commented that a small adjustment or addition to a dish would change the flavor profiles completely. This intrigued Draco and the evening was in deep conversation over the topic.

Later that year saw them together on a winery tour, as part of a trade negotiation. He was representing the winery; she the government working on regulation and tariffs. It lead the couple to the vault, where the two sampled fine wines throughout the evening in comfortable conversation.

An invitation was extended at the close of the year for her to join him in uniting these two passions to create something that would unique to their world - the first ever wizarding Christmas Punch. He brings a few cases of wines - a variety of varietals - to the first few meetings until they created a brew that has been the basis for their annual gathering and re-fermenting of wines.

The first few attempts turned out to be nothing but flavored vinegars, which caused them both to laugh. But the first good batch, that batch that is now sitting in their wine room off the kitchen in the little cottage that blossomed the brew, has been what has grown their relationship every year since.

This year lends them to their ever growing experience as they uncork the wines and prepare the additional items.

She takes the white wines. He takes the reds. They each merge their wines with a variety of fruits and herbs. She adds apples, sage, and vanilla. He adds raspberries, figs, cinnamon, and anise. They each tweak their choices - lemon zest added after thirty minutes of low heat. Stir 8 times counter clockwise. It is like a new creation as they take annotations in their journals that chronicle their creations.

Once in awhile their hands graze each other, causing a slight pause in the process and a smile that is brighter than the North Star on each of the masters.

He tosses a bit of anise and orange into her cauldron, earning him a smack on the chest.

She tosses some vanilla into his, and he grabs her hip and tickles her.

The two keep their potion dance for just over an hour before adding some sugar to the mix and letting it simmer. When the two complete their steps he leans over and kisses her temple taking in every memory of this day to keep him going for another year.

The small cottage smells divine, of fresh fruit and simmering wines, a warm fire and happy heart, of love and longing.

Her eyes meet his, and the tension in the room is replaced with a long pent up desire to be with each other in a purely physical sense. This is what they both look forward to most in the day - the time where their emotions and bodies merge into one.

His kisses start to linger more and more as her body melds into his, finding those places he has memorized on her that weakens any reservations she may cling to. Her hands tangle in his snowy angelic locks as her lips find the crux of his neck. His hands reach under the abysmal jumper, caressing her sides, slowly moving upwards.

This is their annual dance, the time where they find themselves in each other.

Her nails scratch his scalp with each moan he elicits from her, each getting throatier and more lust filled. Each sound brings a smile to him, knowing that he knows her more intimately, more deeply, more completely than even her own husband. He lifts her onto the table as her legs wrap around his taught frame, as if they were in this same position yesterday - not a year ago. He knows her in ways that only a lover knows, because he doesn’t just make love to her physically but also emotionally and intellectually. He is there for her completely and she knows it. It is what brings her back year after year. It is what draws her to his side during their few meetings and encounters throughout the year.

He knows she can’t be there for him in the same way, but she knows him more intimately than anyone else ever has. She is the only one he dreams about, fantasizes about. When his wife wants to curl up with him, on those very few occasions, it is her he imagines. Her brown curls in place of his wife’s dark straight ebony silken locks. Her flush obscuring her numerous freckles in lieu of his wife’s near bloodless complexion. Her fire to his wife’s ice. The differences are just that - one is fire, the other ice. He is drawn to the fire like a moth, even though he knows he will burn. The fire engulfs him fully, leaving invisible scars on his being. This fire is what brings him to her so often for work, he could always delegate those responsibilities to some upwardly mobile witch or wizard, but in the stead, he takes control just to be close to the fire once again. He drowns in the fire, he craves it, this fire that gives him life.

With that thought he moves on, removing her jumper as his cock strains in his slacks. All he can do now is take everything he can, just so he can breathe for another year. His lips trail every exposed part of her frantically. He needs her and every moment that he cannot be with her in the most carnal ways, pushes him further into a frenzy.

She is not far behind. Her animalistic desires are pushing her further to a precipice which only he can push her over. Her body craves his touch and only his. He knows her so very well that everywhere his fingers or lips or Merlin that desirous tongue touches sends fireworks throughout each nerve in her body. Before they even make it to the bedroom, she fears she will be a puddle. Her knickers, those sexy pieces of silver and black lace that her sister in law gave her, are ruined with her own juices just from his touches. As his fingers trace the lace adornments of her bra, her head flies backwards with a feral moan.

He lifts her up with ease, it is one of the reason he works out nearly daily, holding tight to her firm backside and automatically her legs wrap tighter around his midsection, nearly constricting his movements. Their lips meet again and all the desire and desperation flows through their kisses. As he carries her, he kicks off his own shoes, readying himself for the erogenous dance that lay ahead.

He gently places her on the small bed in the other room, it is a simple piece of furniture covered in a soft warm patchwork quilt. It was a gaudy present years ago from some in law of Hermione’s. She brought it because it was warm and homey, something that to the both of them this cabin represents. There is almost nothing else in the room beside a small set of mismatched tables at the sides of the bed and a small wardrobe with only an additional day’s worth of clothing for each of them. The bed itself is the focal point of the room, and today is practically the only day of the year that it sees any use, still it is the pinnacle of comfort. Everything the two of them have put into their cabin has culminated in the bed. There is something of her’s - the quilt - there is something of his - the luxurious goose down pillows - and something of them together - the sheets which they picked out together.

He breaks away from his near frantic kissing her for just a moment to admire the witch in his bed. This memory needs to last him a calendar year once more. He brushes a stray lock of her auburn hair, one wayward curl that seems to like to linger on her cheek, before he places a kiss to where the curl was residing. His fingers continue around the back of her head, to the place he knows all her tension resides at the base of her skull, and with one hand he rubs out all the negativeness that has accumulated while the pads of his other fingers trace every angle and freckle that dots her face.

“You are so beautiful, Hermione. So utterly beautiful.” It is something he knows she never hears, and as much as he wants to tell her daily or hourly, he has to remain reserved and only expound on this day.

“Draco,” her voice comes out like a prayer on her lips.

It is all he needs to sit up and remove his button down shirt, showing her the extent of his frustration that he takes out in the gym. Her fingers trace the defined pectorals with the softness of a feather. They trail down his abs, that glorious six pack, to the V of his pelvis, before taking control of his belt and releasing it. As her fingers linger on the button of his slacks he chokes out, “Please Hermione,” with his eyes tightly closed.

She puts him out of his pent up sexual frustration slowly as she unbuttons his slacks before slowly dragging the zipper down, using the backside of her fingers to gracefully rub the underside of his engorged cock. If his eyes were open, they surely would have rolled back at the contact. She examines her work, because it is only her that arouses him in this fashion. His guttural moan brings smittens her as well as increasing her need for him physically to love her. Her fingers wind around him dragging his dark charcoal slacks off his body, revealing a pair of silk boxers.

“What are you wearing?” She looks bewildered at the offending undergarment.

“Probably the most embarrassing gift I have ever received from my son,” he quips. His eyes go down to his boxers, in a definite Santa Claus suit print, and blushes. She giggles at the idea of his son giving him something that is so obviously not his style. “It was a gag he said. He bet me 3 galleons that I would never wear them. I plan on collecting on that bet tomorrow.”

“Poor boy. I will send him the galleons anonymously so he doesn’t have to go into his account for it. As a thank you of course.”

“Of course.” His blush continues, but the topic is dropped as the obnoxious garment finds its way to the floor alongside his slacks.   
Her trousers are the next to be removed, with little fanfare, until her lacy knickers are exposed.

“Is this…” his mouth doesn’t seem to be working as he ogles her.

“This is what Gin gave me. And only you will see it,” she reminds him.

“Oh Merlin, thank you.” He admires the black and silver lace that covers her barely, it is the smallest piece of fabric that could be used to describe ‘knickers’, with the sides as black ribbons that tie together making it one garment. He undoes the first bow, his fingers lingering on the newly exposed skin, before his deep grey eyes shift to the other bow releasing it in a similar manner. He silently thanks Ginevra Potter for her foresight in gifting such an intimate item to her.  With her bra still on, his lips find the crux between her now spread legs, as he kisses her tenderly, his tongue flicking out every so often to taste that essential flavor that he craves.

It isn’t long before under these simple ministrations her body starts to quiver with each flick of her private center of nerves. His tongue and fingers prod her, finding that spot in her that will send her over the edge, and bringing her to the cusp.

Her legs tighten, each muscle taught with desire to feel the ecstasy that is lingering so close.

Once he knows she is so close, he pulls away, to watch her become to come down, before slithering his body up hers. It is only now that he slides the straps of her bra off her shoulders, exposing her rosy pert breasts. He kisses and sucks on the nipples, giving each a gentle bite, before turning to it’s pair.

Her fingernails graze his back, not deep enough to draw blood but still deep enough that he feels the exquisite pain that radiates from them. She moans his name, begging him. She wants him inside her, she wants them to come together.

He finally gives in to her pleas, sliding into her soft warmth until it fully engulfs his manhood. He is not small but she is so tight around him that he can feel every pulsation from her body, bringing him closer to his own pleasure.

Each thrust goes deeper in her. Each thrust finds her center. Each thrust he feels her tighten around his own shaft. Each thrust, even as slow as they are, brings the two of them closer together.

Finally every nerve in her body fires and she racked with wave after wave of explosive pleasure, bringing him along shortly afterwards.

The two are in a sexually sated exhaustion, and they both know that this is just the first of a few times today that they will show each other what it is to be loved completely.

They rest for an hour before he raises his head, looking longingly at his witch - even if she is only his for today - resting in his arms, curled into his virile chest. He breathes in her scent that he dreams of every night, that sweet conglomeration of sweat, sex, honey, and her. Rubbing his long fingers over her taut stomach he whispers, “Stay.”

She doesn’t even stir, “I can’t.”

“Stay, Hermione.”

“Draco,” she raises her head, her soulful eyes looking at him showing her post-sex desire, “you know I want to.”

“No. Actually I don’t. You can. We can. We can run away. Take the kids. You can leave him. I will leave her in an instant. Once you say you are mine, I will be yours completely. Just say the word. Just say that you’ll stay.”

Her head falls back to his chest, her curls covering him like a blanket that he wants to stay curled up in, “I…. I just can’t. I’m sorry. Not now. Not yet.”

He closes his eyes, knowing she is being logical and only logical. He is being the one who is driven on his emotions, which is one of the reasons he loves this day most. He loves that today he can turn over his thoughtful facade and be himself, completely himself, with her. He can let his heart guide him on this lone day. Tomorrow, he will be back to the logical, forbearing, callous businessman that everyone in the wizarding world knows him as. Today, though, he is Draco - not Mister Malfoy - just Draco. Draco who has a heart that belongs to the witch in his arms. Draco that loves deeper than anyone close to him has seen. Draco that feels, is emotional, even if it doesn’t show for the next three hundred and sixty something days until he returns to this cottage.

He pulls her into him again, tighter, never wanting to let her go. He will show her the depth of his love for her, if only tonight.

His kisses start at the top of her head, trailing down the side of her face, stopping to kiss the tip of her nose before lingering on her lips. Once he reached his favorite, his only place his lips meet another’s, he deepens the kiss so as to remind both of them for the next year. He puts everything, all of him, in the kiss sending a shiver down her back to her curling toes. He rolls over on top of her, his fingers caressing every soft, sensual curve of her body - her pert breasts, the intake at her waist, the roundness of her hips. He grips her hips tightly, letting her know what he wants. He wants her. Always her. Only her. He wants her like an addict needs his next hit. He drinks in her kisses like an alcoholic. Her moans are his drug of choice. Her sex is his high, his ecstasy, his shaking world.

He slowly enters her again, wanting every feel to be engraved upon their souls for another year. His lovemaking is never rushed or hard, until she calls out for it, but if it were up to him it would take hours each and every time.  Each thrust of his hips brings him deeper in her, and both of them feel every millimeter that brings them to their highs again. He pulsates in and out, creating a rhythm that makes their bodies hum in euphoria. She moans “faster Draco,” and he can only abide her commands. He pounds his length into her, finding the soft moist warmth surrounding his sensitive head intoxicating. Everything about this woman drives him to the point of pleasurable insanity, but her body is the one that actually brings him there and back.

As each thrust of his hips are more wild, her moans turn to screams egging him on for more. When she calls out “Deeper, please,” he adjusts her hips so that they both can feel the full extent of his manhood, the cock that she enjoys. He laps up as she comes over the edge, covering him in her obvious desire.

He pushes through, trying to ignore the heightened sensation, and keeps going and going. She in the past has called him the “Energizer Bunny” and after a long explanation he understood and wore the moniker with pride. He will show her again that he can keep going as he watches her body nearly convulse in the drawn out orgasm. He peels her fingers from the headboard before she marks them with her nails.

Their two bodies continue in this embodiment of passion, causing the bed to thrust against the wall violently. Their magic comes together in a aurora of colors lighting the room, but neither see it in their personal physical pleasure.

As he approaches his climax, she screams out his name, digging her nails in his back. The two of them come together again as his seed erupts from him into her.

He knows that she will or has taken all precautions, but in his heart he craves a child with her. Theirs. An image floods his mind as he can picture her pregnant, her holding a towhead infant, watching her as their child grows.

It is another desire of his that will be left for another day, in another life.

Now he just collapses on his side taking in the image of his Hermione post orgasm; it is a beautiful sight of her curls thrown askew, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, her brown eyes closed, and her body covered in a light sheen of sweat. It is a sight that he will need to take to memory for another year as he closes his eyes again.

The small cottage smells of the remnants of the simmering wine and that distinct smell of sex by the time the sun is setting on the horizon.

She pauses in her dressing, looking down at the lingerie that was meant for her husband but more enjoyed by her lover. Part of her wants it to remain in this cottage, as a sign they were there and that they loved. A sign that this is real, not some daydream that when she awakes, she will be even lonelier. She reminds herself to do the one thing that he doesn’t know about, every year as she leaves the cottage she takes a small flower that she first saw poking through the snow over a decade ago. She presses it into a journal at home where more nights than she wants to admit, she looks over them knowing what she has today is real. He is real. His touches are real. His caresses, his kisses, his love, his passion - all of it is real. All of it is for her. All of her is for him. All of this, this love they share, is theirs even though it only remains within these walls.

“What is it love? You look…”

“It’s nothing. Other than I don’t want to leave again. You know I wish we could just stay here but it isn’t practical…” her voice quakes as she works to keep her tears at bay.

He rises from their bed, in all of his naked glory, approaching her cautiously, “Darling, what we have, you know, it isn’t just today. It isn’t just next year. I feel it every day. My feelings for you are all year. Just tell me when and this will be our every day.”

“Don’t say that. We can’t. I can’t. You can’t. Our worlds are so different, and if anyone catches wind of the two of us…” She doesn’t turn to face him, her eyes remaining on the floor at the discarded lingerie.

“The world has changed since we were children, Hermione,” he says smoothing her hair, his other arm wrapping around her waist pulling her into him. “People won’t think twice of us in a relationship. And if they do, they are not to be listened to because their bigotry is their sole driving force. Ours is love. People will see that.”

“I just can’t, Draco,” she interrupts. “Please. Not yet. One day, I promise.”

He resigns himself to another year of longing for the woman in his arms as his head sinks to the top of hers. He takes in a deep breath, cataloging her scent for another year. “You know I will never pressure you. Just know how much this kills me, seeing you in anguish like this.”

“One day Draco.”

“One day.”

With these two words barely leaving his lips, he releases her, picks up her discarded clothes, and turns to head to the small bathroom to dress himself. It isn’t that he can’t stand the sight of her, he can’t stand to watch her leave him again. He can’t stand to see the hurt on her face so soon after seeing the fire return to her beautiful big golden brown eyes just moments ago.

His hands rest on the sides of the simple, white pedestal sink, his head hanging low. He knows what will greet him if he looks up in the frameless mirror - his forlorn face. It is a mirror of him in sixth year, but it is every year that she leaves him to return to her husband and family. It is dark circles surrounding his steel grey irises. It is hollowed out cheeks making his reddened nose more prominent. It is pale skin covering a mask of hurt and denial. Splashing water on his face, he tries to look a little more the aristocrat that he is, and not the broken man inside.

She is turning him out again. Just like last year. And the year before. And the year before that. Just like she will next year. Still he returns to this consecrated place knowing she will be here and his just for a few hours.

It is the farewell that eats at his insides, like a parasite. All he wants is her, every day, every minute; not just this one day a year and whatever brief moments they can share in between.

He doesn’t pressure her to do anything she doesn’t want. Everything he holds dear is in her hands.

Again, she turns him out.

He leaves the bathroom to see that she has already dressed in her coat, scarf, hat and gloves. She is leaving him alone to wallow. Again.

“See you next year. You’re the one solace in my world right now. Don’t leave me.” She shuts the door behind her without even waiting for a response, she knows he won’t leave her, but still she can’t take the risk. He could hear the tremor in her voice as she did. She didn’t want to leave but her responsibilities pressured her to. If only she knew.

Picking up a journal, one that only is written in one day a year, it is a testament to their relationship - their love - that sits next to his chair he pens:  
_December 26, 2018 I can never leave you. If only you knew that you are my polaris, pointing me home. Pointing me to you. I will watch over you every day until you return, my love. One day you will find this and read it. I don’t regret anything. I don’t regret loving you. I can’t stop. I will be here for you. If we cannot be together in this life, I pray to all the Gods that in the next I will be the man you need. Yours Always, DM._


End file.
